


heart so cold

by ToAStranger



Series: Luster [12]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Sick Stiles, Werewolf Courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart so cold

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for anon: 
> 
> I had this horrible thought: when a werewolf courts someone, a bond is formed between them and their potential mate. This means that if they are denied late into the ritual, it's as painful as losing a pack member. Werewolves are careful about it, but how would a human boy know? Any pairing with Stiles, hurt/comfort

Stiles does not notice it at first. He is too busy going through the motions—class, study, party, class, game, study, class. He barely has time for sleep; if he isn’t in class or doing something for class, then Lydia has him busy with some social something or J.T. and Scott drag him into hours of COD gameplay. So when his body starts to ache, he thinks it’s just stress and sleep deprivation.

It is three weeks after breaking the courtship off with Deucalion and Peter that he thinks he’s sick. Mostly because Lydia tells him that he is.

“I’m fine,” he argues, even as he pushes himself out of bed slowly. Gingerly.

“You’re definitely _not_ ,” Lydia tells him, hands on her hips, lips pursed. “Do you have a fever? Have you taken anything?”

“No and no,” Stiles mutters, fingers pressing over his forehead.

His head feels like it’s swimming and there is a strange grittiness to his teeth. Sighing, he closes his eyes, and Lydia clucks her tongue at him.

There is a rustle of noise. Lydia brushes his hand aside with a soft touch, her knuckles soft against his skin. He opens his eyes, looks up, and sees her frown. Fingers tracing down, she tips up his chin and leans in, eyes darting between his.

“You’re sick,” she tells him. “And you have a fever.”

“No,” he whines. “Don’t say that to me.”

“You should go to the clinic and get checked out,” she says; it isn’t a suggestion. “The note they give you will excuse you from classes for at least today.”

“I have notes that need taking,” he rebuffs.

“I’ll take them for you,” Lydia assures. “Get your ass out of bed and get to the clinic, Stiles. Or I’ll drag you there in your pajamas.”

Stiles’ lips press thin. “Fine.”

* * *

 

“Well, I think you have the flu, Mr. Stilinski.” Dr. Rodriguez says, snapping off her gloves as she pushes away from where he’s seated, rolling over to the desk across the room to jot down a few notes.

“So what do I do?” Stiles frowns, palming the back of his head.

It’s only sixty eight degrees out, but he has quite a few layers on. He keeps getting quakes and chills that leave him shivering. The fall weather doesn’t usually affect him so severely, but as October slowly fades into November, he finds himself growing more cold, more tired.

“I’m going to prescribe you a drug called Oseltamivir,” Dr. Rodriguez tells him, already typing it up on the computer. “You shouldn’t have any issue with it reacting with your Adderall, but if you do, just give the clinic a call and we’ll figure something out.”

“Are there side effects?” Stiles asks.

“A few,” she nods, spinning in the chair to face him, smile soft and comforting in a way that reminds him far too much of Scott’s mom. “Dizziness is the most common. There are a couple more severe ones that include breathing problems and increased levels of anxiety and confusion, but I don’t think that those will pop up.”

“Okay,” Stiles swallows, nodding slowly.

“Look out for any allergic reactions,” she says, tone firm. “If you see any kind of rash beginning to develop, call in immediately. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles nods again.

The doctor smiles again. “Good. Now, it’s Wednesday. I’m going to have the receptionist write you a note to cover you through Friday. I don’t want you in class spreading this around or getting worse, do you understand?”

“Right, yeah, totally.” Stiles’ shoulders slump a bit. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll send the prescription up to the front desk and they should take care of you,” she says.

Stiles pushes to his feet carefully. His body is heavy, aching, exhausted. He heads for the door.

“Oh, and Stiles?” He pauses as Dr. Rodriguez calls to him, blinking over his shoulder at her. “Get well soon.”

His lips press tight and he nods before stepping out of her office.

* * *

He doesn’t get better. Days pass, the weekend passes, and he starts going back to class—still taking the meds as prescribed by Dr. Rodriguez. Halloween is right around the corner, and Stiles is still sick. Still aching from head to toe. Still growing more tired each day.

J.T. tells Lydia; Lydia tells Scott; Scott tells his father. It’s how he ends up on the phone after classes, barely keeping his eyes open, talking in a quiet voice to his dad. He just wants to roll over and sleep for a month. Maybe two.

“You’re not okay, are you, kid?” his dad asks.

Stiles hesitates. “No. I don’t think I am.”

“Want me to come up this weekend?”

“No,” Stiles breathes, staring up at the wood slats of J.T. bunk above his head. “I think... I think I want to come home. Just for a few days.”

The Sheriff pauses. “Of course, kiddo. You can come home whenever you want.”

Stiles’ throat feels tight. He nods even though he knows his dad can’t see it. “I’ll drive up Friday.”

“Sounds good,” his dad says. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

Lydia offers to come up with him. He tells her that he’ll be fine, reminds her that she has plans with Micaela and duties with _Pi Beta Phi_ to attend to. She reluctantly lets him leave on his own.

He’s grateful, and drives all the way home with the windows of the jeep rolled down, the wind whipping around him until he feels numb. It’s a good feeling.

When he pulls into his driveway, his dad’s car is absent. He figures he’s on duty, so he clamors out of his jeep and into the house, falling into bed with a gust of relief. Stiles sleeps. He sleeps long and he sleeps hard.

* * *

He wakes to an empty kitchen.

“ _Dad_ ,” he groans, staring into a barren refrigerator.

There are microwave dinners in the fridge.

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

* * *

 

Shopping is easy. It is something that he has done for as long as he can remember. He went when his mother was alive, and he went when she wasn’t. In a way, he finds a kind of comfort in it.

He’s walking down the cereal aisle, headed for the Honey Nut Cheerios, when Peter says his name. Stiles stalls completely, body going frightfully still, and he hears Peter walk up behind him. His fingers curl tight around the handle of his buggy, knuckles going white. He refuses to look Peter’s way as he man sidles up next to him.

“Stiles,” he says again, tone softer, less surprised.

Something in Stiles’ chest thrums. Something empty and hollow, a place he didn’t realize existed until just now, and his jaw goes tight.

“When did you—?“ Peter falters, licks his lips, and Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever heard him so unsure. “When did you get here?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Stiles mumbles, finally grinding back to a start, pushing his cart forward slowly as he moves down the aisle.

Peter lets out a soft sound and follows after him. “Were you going to tell us?”

Stiles knows that _us_ doesn’t mean pack. It means Peter, and it means Deucalion.

“No,” Stiles says.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because you don’t have a right to know anymore,” Stiles snaps.

His voice is harsh, ragged, tight. He looks at Peter and sees wide eyes, both of them coming to a stop once more. Stiles’ chest feels heavy.

“Right,” Peter breathes.

Stiles jerks back around, movement disjointed, and he pushes his cart forward a bit faster. For a moment, he thinks Peter is going to leave him alone, but then he calls for him again, then he follows him again.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter says.

“Leave me _alone_ ,” Stiles hisses.

Peter reaches for him, takes him by the elbow, and Stiles’ entire nervous system _screams_. Pulling away sharply, Stiles stumbles back and knocks into the shelving, cereal boxes falling in a mess into the aisle.

He’s trembling. He’s trembling and pale, and Peter is looking at him like he’s something wild. Peter’s hands come up, supplicating, and Stiles glances between them as his breath comes short, then shorter.

“Stiles,” Peter mutters. “Stiles, you need to calm—“

“ _Shut up_ ,” he says, voice high and reedy. “Shut _up_.”

“I’m just trying to help—“

“I don’t _want_ your help. I don’t want your _anything_.”

“You don’t understand what’s happening to you,” Peter tells him slowly, like he’s speaking to a child.

Stiles grabs a box off of the shelf behind him and chucks it at Peter’s head. “ _Fuck you_.”

“Stiles, please.” Peter pleads, shuffling closer, hands still out and brows pinched. “You don’t know what’s happening to you. I can help. Let me help you.”

The edges of Stiles’ vision goes spotty.

“I don’t want you to help me,” Stiles whispers, but he can’t breathe and he can’t feel his legs.

It’s the first panic attack he has had in a very long time.

“I know,” Peter nods. “I’m sorry. This is all our fault.”

Stiles’ right knee buckles. Peter catches him before he can hit the ground, but not before he can pass out.

* * *

He wakes up in the hospital and instantly hates everything. Groaning, he tries to sit up, and is stopped by a firm hand on his chest.

Scott’s mom offers up a tight smile, and he returns it. “You are not going anywhere just yet,” she tells him.

“What happened?” he asks.

“You had a nasty reaction to the prescription you’re on while at the grocery store,” Melissa says. “Peter tried to take you home, but one of the other patrons insisted on calling 9-1-1.”

“Ah,” Stiles grunts, flopping back against the sterilized cot. “Thanks, random citizen.”

Melissa’s lips thin as she bites back a soft laugh. “How do you feel?”

“Like I had a panic attack in the middle of the grocery store and woke up in the hospital,” Stiles mutters.

“Stiles,” she chides.

He sighs and licks his lips. “Tired. Sore. Like my whole body is decaying from the inside out. Standard flu symptoms, right?”

The door swings open and Scott is there with his father, Peter and Deucalion behind them. “Not quite.”

Stiles’ brow goes up. “Hi, dad.”

“Hey, kid.” His father pads over, taking his place next to Stiles as Melissa steps back, and he leans in to press a kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “You’re not even home for twenty-four hours and you’re already raising my blood pressure.”

“Love you too,” Stiles smiles, lopsided and dopey.

The Sheriff ruffles his hair.

“Scott?” Stiles looks his way, gesturing to where Peter and Deucalion are hovering in the doorway. “Explain.”

“Actually,” Scott grimaces, rubbing the back of his head, and Stiles already knows he won’t like what’s coming next. “I think it would be better if they explained.”

* * *

“What will you do?” Scott asks when they’ve all gone, watching Stiles slide from the starched sheets, knowing better than to protest as he dresses himself.

“Get better,” Stiles shrugs. “There’s not much else I can do.”

Scott gives him a tight lipped look.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles says.

“It’s just an idea,” Scott mutters.  “I know that what they did wasn’t cool, and I would never try and push you into something that you don’t want, but... Lydia told me you cared for them.”

Stiles pauses, sighs, head tipping back as he closes his eyes. “Does Lydia ever keep her mouth shut?”

“Not when it comes to helping you,” Scott grins.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles shimmies into his jeans. “I can help myself.”

“We know. We just worry.” Scott replies. “Is she right?”

Hesitating, Stiles finishes buttoning up his pants before turning to look at Scott, holding his hands out helplessly. “So what if she is? What does that mean?”

“It means that... maybe you give them a second chance,” Scott says, and the quiet that follows is stifling.

Stiles blinks. “ _What_?”

“Don’t give me that look, I’m not telling you to. I’m suggesting that, if you like them enough, maybe giving them a second chance is the best plan.” Scott says, pushing to his feet from where he was sitting in the chair by the window.

“When the hell did you start rooting for Peter and Deucalion?” Stiles sneers, tugging the medical gown off in order to pull his shirt over his head.

“Dude, c’mon. You know that I’m one of the last people to join team Peter or team Deucalion,” Scott grunts, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I just... I want you to be happy, and I want you to be healthy. If that means giving them one more chance to not be dicks, then maybe that’s what you should do. Even though I definitely still think they’re both dickheads.”

Stiles snorts, but his expression is tight. “And if I do? If I let them close and we break it off again, I’m right back in this position—suffering some kind of mystical bond breaking illness. Which I might add, is absolutely ridiculous.”

Scott’s nose wrinkles. “It is a bit ridiculous.”

“But what, in our lives, isn’t?” Stiles huffs out a laugh.

Scott reaches out, hand warm and firm on Stiles’ shoulder. He squeezes, and Stiles gives him an easy smile. It falters a second later and he nods jerkily.

“I do,” Stiles mumbles. “I do care about them. I don’t want to—not anymore. But I care about them, and I miss them. All the time.”

Scott’s jaw goes tight, but he nods too, tugging Stiles close into a one armed hug. “Okay. Okay, dude. We’ll figure it out.”

Leaning into him, Stiles slumps, and for the first time in a month, he feels like maybe he can breathe again.


End file.
